Meraki
by Polly Lynn
Summary: "She wants that. The sweetness of settling next to him, words and sounds and satisfaction rolling over them both. The quiet pleasure of feeding him. Of making this her place, too. Their place." A story of indeterminate length about nothing at all. Set some time not too long after "Murder, He Wrote" (5 x 04). Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Meraki

WC: ~1000 this chapter

Rating: T

Summary: "She wants that. The sweetness of settling next to him, words and sounds and satisfaction rolling over them both. The quiet pleasure of feeding him. Of making this her place, too. Their place." A story of indeterminate length about nothing at all. Set some time not too long after "Murder, He Wrote" (5 x 04)

* * *

It's raining. The house—even this massive, hulking thing—is wrapped entirely in delicious gloom. The wind howls, and every once in a while the rain taps mournfully at the wide windows. It's wonderful. Perfect. Exactly what she wants for this.

She sends him away. Chases him out of the kitchen. His _own_ kitchen, he points out, then regrets it. Looks up quickly to apologize. She laughs, though. It is. It's _his_ kitchen, so far anyway. She grins and shoos him away. Tells him to go _do _something.

"Like what?" he asks grumpily from the doorway. "Check the pool for dead guys?"

"If there are dead guys in the pool, deal with it, and don't bother me. I'm cooking."

She keeps her focus on the cutting board in front of her. On the balance of a good knife in her hand and the satisfaction of motion. The clean slice of the blade and the _tok _of symmetrical pieces coming to rest on the wood. Precision and repetition. Everything bending to her will, just so.

Not quite _everything._

She pretends not to notice him creeping up on her. She hums to herself and keeps her eyes on her work. Lets the anticipation build. Her lips part and her breath catches as his arms slide around her waist. As he sweeps the hair from her neck and strings kisses from shoulder to ear. She lets him feel what he does to her. She lets herself feel it, just for now.

"You're cooking." She can hear the grin. Feel it shivering over her skin. "You're cooking for me."

"Not if you don't go." But she lets the knife settle on the board. She lets her hands still and her body sink against his. She revels in the perfect fit. "Right now, Castle."

"I'm going. Right now," he murmurs.

He's not. He doesn't. It's really no wonder. Her tone isn't exactly commanding, and the way her head tips willingly to the side is a mixed message at best.

She doesn't exactly want him to go. She'd love to have him here. Sitting and keeping her company. Telling stories and topping off her wine glass. Entertaining her.

But that's a fantasy. He can't sit still. He can't just leave her to this. He wants to help. He wants to show her where things are and tell the story of every single thing he comes across. The whole story before he can hand the damned thing over or get to what she was actually looking for.

He wants to hinder because the thrill of this hasn't worn off yet. The fact that he can derail just about any plan of hers with a touch or a well chosen word. By brushing by and leaving her with the scent of him. Everything about him calls to her, and the thrill off that might never wear off.

He wants to hinder, and part of her wants that, too. Right now. With every tug of his teeth at her skin. Every sweep of his fingers over her belly where the knotted tails of her shirt don't quite meet the low waist of her jean shorts. With every passing second, more and more of her defects to Team Hinder.

But another kind of desire wins out. The mellow scent of roasting garlic. The neat, bright piles, orange and green and red and gold. The things she has to show for the work of her hands. The care she wants to take with all of this.

The table and candles and music. The stuff he likes. The stuff she teases him about, even though it's growing on her. Even though she likes it a little more every time she catches him singing under his breath. She wants the exact moment when the speakers pop and his face lights up. The spark of recognition. Delight in sharing something he loves with her.

Timing things so they can watch the stars come out over the water, once the storm passes. So they can shiver at the lightning and count down to thunder if it doesn't.

Anticipation.

She wants that. The sweetness of settling next to him, words and sounds and satisfaction rolling over them both. The quiet pleasure of feeding him. Of making this her place, too. Their place.

"Castle!" She twists in his arms.

"What?" He blinks at her, his tone equal measures of surprise and calculated innocence. "I'm going!"

His head dips, bound for the flush of sunburn just between her collar bones, but she arches away from him. She gropes behind her. Her fingers close around a handle and she swiftly brings it up between them. Whatever "it" is. She was going for the paring knife, but this is one of fifty gadgets he must have pulled out and explained in painstaking detail before she forbid him from "helping." From talking. From _being _here unless he could behave. Which he obviously can't.

"I _said _I was going, Beckett." He blinks down at the thing as she brandishes it. "No need to . . . flavor inject me to death?"

She looks from him to the strange, wide-bore syringe. "That sounds . . . really dirty."

"You think everything sounds dirty. I love that about you."

He lowers his voice to a whisper of gravel and nips at her neck again. That's _not _helping. Not that she concedes that she thinks everything sounds dirty. She's not conceding anything. She's _cooking_. She yanks the thought uppermost in her mind and finally succeeds in shoving him away.

"_Out_, Castle." She turns back to the counter.

He advances again, but she's taken up the santoku knife. With a practiced flick of her wrist and a little more force than necessary, she brings it down on the board with a loud _thwock_.

"Out," he mutters, backpedaling. Grinning and tempting and trying hard to hinder even though he really is going now. "_Out.__"_

* * *

Meraki — (Greek.)_ Doing something with soul, creativity, or love — when you put "something of yourself" into what you're doing, whatever it may be. _


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Meraki

WC: ~1400 this chapter, 2400 so far

Rating: T

Summary: "She wants that. The sweetness of settling next to him, words and sounds and satisfaction rolling over them both. The quiet pleasure of feeding him. Of making this her place, too. Their place." A story of indeterminate length about nothing at all. Set some time not too long after "Murder, He Wrote" (5 x 04)

* * *

She chases him out into the rain. Well. She chases him _out. _The rain is his idea. A door and the howling wind between them, because anything else is too tempting.

No matter how many rooms away he goes, the smells from the kitchen are incredible, and the music she makes calls to him. Bare feet pattering and the percussion of the knife. The bright hiss of things landing in hot oil. Actual snatches of melody floating above the ring of her glass as she sets it decisively on the counter. Actual melody, because she sings. She mutters to herself and laughs out loud as she moves efficiently from there to here, and she _sings._

_She__'__s _too tempting,

It's fun to bother her. There's nothing new about that, except that everything feels new. Four months into this—four _years _and four months—every single thing about being with her feels new. And old. Comfortable. They know each other inside and out, and still— every day—he uncovers some new fact or favorite or thing that goes bump in the night for her. Something she loves and he had no idea.

It's magnified here. Away from the city where she's so different—where _they__'__re _so different—that it's like another sun in another sky. Here, she shoves her hands deep in her pockets and saunters. She floats on her back and twists in the water. She cuts through it with clean, graceful strokes and splashes like a little girl. She turns up a palm and reaches for his. She says _walk with me _and they ramble together along the beach. She leaves her watch behind.

She's enjoying herself. Wholeheartedly. She turns the tables and bothers him.

She snoops and rifles through things. She clambers up on the couch with him or into the hammock, all warm, bare, salt-smelling skin. She plucks books and magazines and newspapers from his hand and tosses them away.

She closes his fingers around things she's found and demands their stories. Shells and beach glass and tacky souvenirs. A solar-powered mason jar that glows with softly shifting colored lights and a dusty collection of hideous little figurines Alexis was obsessed with a hundred years ago.

She cuts him off and makes up her own versions when she thinks his are boring. She pulls off his sunglasses and gives him her interrogation stare when she thinks he's exaggerating. She seeks him out. She _demands _and gets her way.

She bothers him all the time here. He'd like to bother her now.

He'd like to be with her, rocking the tall stool back and back because she bites her lip and worries he's going to fall, whether she'd ever say that or not. He'd like to distract her with chatter and kisses while he palms the remote from the counter and messes with the playlist she has going. He'd like to dart away with it and make her chase, swatting him with a tea towel and threatening him with unidentified kitchen gadgets as they race through room after room.

He'd like to let her catch him. Take his punishment up against the French doors. He'd like to kiss her to the satisfying reverberation of things clattering to the floor. Whatever's in her hands. Whatever's in his.

He'd like all of that, and it's tempting.

It's _tempting_, but this is, too. Her. Today. This time.

It's enthralling, the way she's . . . installing herself. Marks on the cutting boards and fussy stacks utensils set just so in different drawers. Her breath fogging the copper bottom of a hanging pot and the decisive sweep of her forearm, wiping away half-imaginary smudges and leaving the memory of the way she grins at her own reflection in it.

It's tempting enough to make him wait. To leave her be and know she's left her mark. That a hundred signs of her will be here the next time and the next time and the next.

It's tempting enough to have him out here, breathing deep. Holding on tight to the porch railing to anchor himself and lifting his chin to the rain. It's tempting enough for the moment to keep his back to the house. To give her time and space and now. To let this place fill up with light and scent and her.

But the door opens just then. The clatter of casters and a mournful sigh as outside and in meet.

"You're soaked!"

Her words are all but swallowed up by the storm. By the sea and the swollen sky.

He turns to her, laughing. He _is _soaked.

She's standing in the doorway, one annoyed hand braced inside as the wind rushes to her and gathers up her hair. Light pours out of the kitchen behind her and he has to have her.

Her eyes go wide, but his intention registers a second too late. His name is a broken off syllable as he tugs her out into the storm. As he spins her against the side of the house and covers her body with his.

"You're soaked," she says again, breathless this time and kissing him.

"Soaked," he echoes as he sips raindrops from the tip of her chin.

He is. She is. She's shivering with it and he means to take her inside. He means to dash through the house with her, dripping and ducking away as she scolds. He means to peel away the rain dark fabric from her stippled skin and wrap her around and around with a huge, sinfully soft towel.

He means to, but her head lolls against the wall and she's kissing him like it's been a thousand years since the last time. The scent of rain and cedar winds around them. Her palms slide between the buttons of his shirt and she gasps like the warmth of his skin burns her.

"No."

He hears it. Faint and nonsensical. Vaguely annoying.

"Yes," he says crossly. But he's the one against the house now and she's far away. A rain-slicked arm and a long, long fingertip away.

"Dinner," she says firmly. Too firmly.

She's wavering. Vulnerable. His hand snakes out. He tugs the tails of her shirt. Draws her in and unknots them along the way. He slides his fingers up and over her belly. "Order in. Later."

"Castle . . ."

It's testy, but he has her. He knows he has her. She's coiled against him and she can't stop tasting the rain on his skin. She slides kisses and grazes him with her teeth and her tongue peeks out along the way. He has her, but there's a regretful little sigh the wind doesn't quite steal away.

He breathes deep. He lifts his chin to the rain again and catches her fingers in his. She wants this. He does, too.

He sweeps their arms high over her head and twirls her into his body and out again. Her eyes open wide. She's soaked and dizzy and looks thoroughly kissed. She's tempting in too many ways.

"Ok," he says. He spins her again. Across the porch to the open doorway this time. "Dinner."

The floor's a wreck. Leaves and sand and _wet_ blown almost all the way to the counter. He tries to herd her past it. Says it's his fault and he'll take care of it, but she digs in her heels, literally.

"My kitchen," she whirls toward him and doesn't quite quaver. "Tonight. My kitchen. You. Go shower. Dress for dinner."

"_Dress?_" He sounds appalled. He doesn't mean it. Not entirely, but he was picturing bathrobes. Compromising on store-bought whatever needs making right now and warming her up in the shower. Talking her into that at least.

"Dress," she says, though, and she _does_ quaver this time. Her fingers fly to scrape her sopping hair back from her forehead. Her cheeks. She looks at her toes. Over her shoulder. "Yeah."

He sees then. The silverware neatly bundled in raw silk napkins. Candles like tall, slim soldiers standing by. A bright bowl of flowers he doesn't recognize. He sees it all. Care and a pretty table. Company plates and her hair pinned up.

"Dress," he says. "Dressing. I'm going. Dressing, but don't you . . . you're . . .?" He trails off. Feels ungrateful. Clumsy.

But she smiles and shakes her head. She lights up. "No. You go. I only need a few minutes."

"Going."

He says, and unlikely as it seems, he is. He's going.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Meraki

WC: ~1200 this chapter, 3600 so far

Rating: T

Summary: "She wants that. The sweetness of settling next to him, words and sounds and satisfaction rolling over them both. The quiet pleasure of feeding him. Of making this her place, too. Their place." A story of indeterminate length about nothing at all. Set some time not too long after "Murder, He Wrote" (5 x 04)

* * *

He leaves her undone. Weak kneed and wanting with her fingers curled hard over the edge of the counter, just when she needs to be moving. When she needs to be _doing._

His footsteps retreat, slow and deliberate. Heavy as they rise higher and higher. She knows what he's doing. She knows he's tempting her. Going and going. Making a production of it. He knows she's on the verge of dashing after him.

But the table is beautiful. The progress she's made, anyway. The scents filling the kitchen after the rain and the whole scene. It's beautiful.

She lingers on the kitchen threshold, her arms spread wide like she's being pulled this way and that. His footsteps save her though. Firm and swift and rushing back the way they came until they're directly overhead. They patter quickly back and forth in their bedroom. It draws her back into the kitchen, laughing.

He feels closer like this. Overlapping rhythm, his steps and hers, as if they're dancing all over again. It's enough for now.

She races for the broom. For streamers of paper towels to clean up the wet, sandy mess on the floor. It's all taken up precious time. Dithering and day dreaming and wanting him. Their impromptu dance in the rain. Still, she takes a moment at the glass. She presses her palm to it and feels the percussion of the rain. She feels the cold shock of his lips on her skin and breathes a silent thank you to the storm for the memory.

Just a moment, though, and then she's moving. Still and grateful, then frantic. She had everything timed down to the minute, and she's behind now. The knife flashes and bottles clank together on the counter. She dashes from plate to plate and bowl to bowl. Table to counter to cupboard.

She snaps linens taut and smoothes them into place. She rolls napkins tight and enjoys the chime of brilliant, jewel-toned beach glass as she slides them into rings. The the scene fills in with scent and color and weight. The tableaux she'd imagined coaxed to life.

It's perfect. It's getting there.

The tomatoes and fresh mozzarella need dressing. Vinegar and oil with chiffonade basil and finely minced garlic. She has it all staged, but the platter is chilling and the rest of it got pushed off to the side for last-minute assembly, a drizzle of green and purple to accent bright red and cream nestled together.

She reaches for something to mix the dressing in. Something clean that's on hand. It's too small, really, and she's violent with the whisk in her eagerness. It goes everywhere. _Everywhere._

She curses under her breath and hikes up the tails of her shirt, trying to keep the fabric clear of most of the mess.

"Oh, it's _that _kind of dinner." One arm comes around her middle, palming her shirt higher on her ribs. "If I'd known, I wouldn't have bothered getting dressed."

The fingers of his free hand swipe across her belly, coming away slick with oil. He brings his fingers to his lips. He freezes. She feels the moment he shifts gears.

"Oh, God, Beckett. That's _good_." His voice rumbles in her ear, low and laced with all kinds of hunger.

A laugh bubbles up in her. Pleasure and pride. She wipes her hands clean as she pivots. She tucks her hips back and holds the mess of her own clothes clear of him as she turns to hand him the towel. She looks him up and down, a flutter of appreciation rising in her.

"Mmmm. Glad you bothered." She runs a palm down the front of his shirt, enjoying the delicate texture of embroidery and the casual fall of the untucked hem over his hips. The contrast of colors. Deep blue against her skin. Against his, toasted brown and freckled with the sun.

A smile lights him up. Muscles flutter under her touch. It's deliberately a little too light. He's ticklish sometimes, but it's more than that. The smile and the faintest blush, because it means something to him. Knowing that she loves to look at him. For all his over-the-top vanity, it lights him up to know he makes her heart race.

"Figured you'd approve." He straightens his shoulders, preening for her and making a show of licking his fingers clean. "Since you laid it out on the bed. Subtle, Beckett."

"I needed you to go with my table." She drops back on her heels. Remembers her ruined clothes at the last second. Remembers that she's _so _behind. "My table. Castle. Shoot. I'm . . . _shoot_. Nothing's ready and I'm not dressed . . ."

"I don't mind." He cuts in. Gives chase as she edges away from him. "Not dressed is not a problem."

"Castle."

She's exasperated. Disappointed all out of proportion until his hands come to rest on her shoulders. Until he steals one taste of the curve of her neck and herds her toward the stairs. "Go. Change."

"Castle, I have to . . ." She tries to twist away, but he's corralling her with his body. Skating her bare feet across the floor. "There's . . ."

"Kate." He nips at her ear. Dirty pool. He knows exactly what it does to her. She comes to a stop. She shivers against him. "Let me. It's amazing already. Let me do the rest."

She casts a panicked look over her shoulder. There's the dressing and the candles to light. There's the music and where she wants the bread to go. There's the wine to open and half a dozen other little details so it's perfect. She wants this to be perfect.

"But I . . ." She pops up on her toes to see over him.

"But you . . ." he mimics as he dodges to block her view. "You are slippery and taste delicious and if you don't want the rest of this deliciousness to go to waste, you need to _go_."

He holds her at arm's length like it might help. It doesn't. He falters. He looks her up and down and one hand falls to the denim line that dips below her navel. The rough surface of the button and the brass glimmer of her zipper. His tongue flicks over his lips and it's almost all over then. For both of them.

His skin is still cool from the rain and light catches the drops still clinging to his hair because he was too impatient to really dry it. He's gorgeous in that color. Gorgeous with wanting her.

She forgets what she wants. She's suddenly willing to forget the table and the music and everything.

But he squeezes his eyes shut. He whirls her around. She feels the push and pull in him as he marches her a few steps closer to the stairs.

"Go. Beckett. Now."

She laughs. Her toes curl with it and she wants to race. There and back. She wants the table to be theirs. A moment more perfect for his hands at work there, too.

She goes.

* * *

A/N: I think just one chapter after this. Thanks for reading something about nothing much.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Meraki, Ch. 4

WC: ~1900

* * *

He reins it in. His natural inclination to mess with her system. Usually he would, because he has this neat trick and he would have done that differently. Because she probably didn't realize that he has this cool thing . . . Because he _like_ likes her, and it's fun to rile her up. Usually he'd meddle.

But he's caught up in her way of doing things. In how much care she's taken. Neat edges and precise placement. This color next to that, and napkins that must've been high enough up somewhere that he'd forgotten they had them. They're perfect, though. Color and texture and the tight spiral in the beach-glass rings. He smiles down at them. He turns the neat bundles in his own fingers like they still hold the warmth of her touch.

Everything is perfect, and he has the urge to explore instead. To study this and know her in new ways. He revels in it, puzzling out the finishing touches from the rest of the tableau. He slots things into place with a sense of satisfaction. It's new. A rare pleasure to fall into her like this. Curiously intimate to take up work she's left so nearly finished and adds his own touches here and there.

He gets lost. Fully present, with his mind wide open to sensation rushing to fill him up. Scent and warmth and little things that need doing. He grins to himself as he bustles from place to place, her intentions so clear that it's like her hand at the small of his back and her chin over his shoulder. Fond, bossy words in his ear.

She takes advantage of it. How lost in this he is. She sneaks up on him. She snaps on the music and laughs as he whirls around, the chef's knife clutched to his chest.

She laughs, beautiful and bright and the force of it almost knocks him down. The vision she is. The thin straps at her shoulders and the fall of her dress. The colors. Irregular panes of jewel tones that hold light like stained glass. The blush of her skin.

She's balanced on one foot, slipping on her sandal. He loves her for the eagerness written here. Written everywhere, though she's dressed for company. It's written in the sweep of her hair into a careless, elegant knot and the furrows her fingers left along the way. He loves the irregular wink of combs and hairpins and the fact that shoes are an afterthought because she was eager to be with him.

They come together just inside the kitchen threshold. The long, slow glide of his hand at her hip. Hers at his shoulder and their twined fingers together curled to the center of his chest.

The music is a cheerful staccato. Strange instruments rendering a sunny spring shower in sound. It's something he loves. Something she's just getting to know. It makes the kitchen feel bright and snug. A haven for two as a quite different storm rolls and swells and hammers at the shutters outside.

It's perfect. It's joyous, and he tugs her to him. He sways with her in his arms, building and building with the music until it's a whirling dance around the counter. Until she laughs and crashes into his body. Tips her head back and waits for his kiss.

"I love this," he murmurs. "Thank you. I love this."

She grows quiet. She stills herself. She stills the two of them together as she takes his face in her hands.

"You're welcome," she whispers. "And thank you. I'm glad you like it. I'm so glad."

* * *

The meal is perfect. The blend of flavors and the textures she's brought together. The wine that has a story and the way they can't get near enough to one another. The way everything is more—sharper, richer, sweeter, and more fragrant—when she lifts a bite to his lips on her own fork. When he kisses her and flavors mingle on his tongue and hers.

She's shy at first. A little quieter than usual, and he knows she's not sure if he's teasing or not when he's all eager questions and effusive praise. But it really is perfect.

She opens up. She slips her sandals off and her toes dance across the hardwood floor. Her hands splay wide and she gestures with her silverware. With her wine glass tipped toward him and a knowing smile.

She tells him funny stories. How some junior associate of her mother's got stuck babysitting through some comedy of errors and together they learned the crucial difference between heads of garlic and cloves.

"You could smell it on my skin from the front door." She laughs and steals a sip of his wine. She's done with hers and wants the next bottle for dessert. "My dad wanted to open the hydrant in front of the apartment and stand me in the stream until I was fit for human companionship again."

He drops his mouth to her shoulder like he might taste it now. She shivers and teases him a little. She lets one strap slip halfway down her arm and sighs into his hair. She tightens her fingers against his thigh, but she's gone the next moment. A flash of color ducking out the far side of the table and spinning away.

"More bread," she says lightly.

She snaps at his hand with a deep red towel and darts to the counter to fill a basket and bring back another dish. She slides back close to him on the bench and lets him coax secrets from her. She lights up, pleased, when he falls into serious shop talk. When he admits her way is clever and he'd never thought to try it.

She nods and says _Yes. Next time. I'd like that_. when he asks her to show him. To teach him. She smiles like she might believe him when he promises to be good.

* * *

He sets her on a stool with her bare feet dangling while he straightens up. He brings her each candle and she purses her lips to blow them out. She gives him a pleased, dazzling smile after the last and his heart hurts. He sees her as a little girl. Jim and Johanna's little Katie, and he has to turn away.

He stoops and busies himself at the side of the island until he thinks his eyes might not shine quite so obviously. He comes up a bottle of wine and waits for her to nod. They've sampled three or four already tonight. Things she's chosen with care. Things that have stories, but this is an old stand-by. Something from a local place they'd found together.

He pours them each a generous glass and tells her stories of his own as he moves from table to sink to refrigerator, sealing and stacking and setting things to rights. He tells her how he learned not to cook by way of his mother's example.

"And then?" Kate sips eagerly. Her eyes are alight over the rim of her glass.

He hesitates. It must look for a minute like he might not answer. Like he's willfully misunderstanding what she's asking, and he thinks she's inclined to roll her eyes. Inclined to assume he's fishing for a compliment. He knows he's a good cook. He reminds her often enough that she's loath to feed his ego on that score. It's a game they play, but now something pulls her up short. He's lost in thought. In memory and a real answer. He sees what she must see. The way he's absently worrying the towel in his hands. The briefest furrow of his brow.

He smiles and stretches toward her on his toes. Pushing up on his palms to drop a kiss on her forehead before he's back to the work at hand.

"Alexis," he says. "Cooking for her . . . mapping out meals and making them happen." He turns to the refrigerator. Faces away from her a little longer than necessary. Everything's a little too close to the surface tonight. Joy and pain alike. New delight and old wounds. "It was . . . order out of chaos. With Meredith there after . . . when she wasn't . . . it was something I could make happen with time and effort."

They fall quiet a while after that. He whistles and she hums. It's easy silence, though a little sad. A sharp note of sorrow that throws the good here into sharp relief.

"My dad . . ." she says after a while. He watches her as he scoops things into plastic and battens down the lids. She's wondering whether it's a story for now or later. She shakes her head and it seems like she decides that she doesn't need to know. "When he was spiraling down, I though if I could cook for him—make my mom's dishes—that he'd pull out of it. But . . ."

She trails off. Stares down at her fingers on either side of her wine glass. Toys with a napkin ring, rolling it back and forth and back and forth.

"But . . .?" He sets down his towel. He stills himself to listen.

"But he was too far gone." She shrugs. It's a hurt that's healed, mostly. A scar, rather than a wound. He knows the difference with her. "And it was just . . . all of it got tied up with bad memories. All the things my mom made."

"And now?" His fingers make their way across the island to find hers. To still them and hold them.

"Now . . ." She smiles a little sadly. She kisses his fingertips. "Dad and I do diners and take out."

He smiles back at her. Moves to pull his fingers from hers. To get back to business, but she holds on. She worries the corner of her lip a moment before she looks up at him. Meets his eyes boldly. "This is the first time in years I've made some of this." She lets his finger go and gestures to the waiting line of dishes. Back toward the table. "The first time in years I've tried . . . to feed someone other than myself."

"Did she . . .?" He touches the napkin ring. Cups a rich red blossom drooping over the side of the vase in his palm. "Your mom. Did she go all out?"

"No." She looks off to the side. Out the window at the clearing sky. "Mom was . . . Practical. And always busy. She didn't like the whole production." She plucks a flower from the center if the arrangement. A bright, nodding sunflower. "I do," she says as she twirls the stem between her palms. "This part is me."

"I like both parts," he says with a grin.

He moves again for the towel. For plastic wrap and serving spoons, but she slips off the stool and comes for him. She tugs at his elbow and goes on her toes to the glass doors to the porch. She pulls him along.

Shreds of clouds race across the sky. The wind still moans, but the moon is bright and the rain is gone for now. It's a beautiful night. Beautiful.

"Walk with me," she says as she slides the door back. As she raises their hands and turns in barefoot circles out into the night. "Walk with me."

* * *

A/N: again, thanks for reading something about nothing. I enjoyed writing this and have appreciated the support.


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